20-20 Experience
by MGMK
Summary: Brittany and Santana set to an awesome album


**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Just borrowing.

**Author's Note: **Bringing this over from Tumblr. I like JT's album and it makes me write fics. That is all. Also, songs used/referenced here are: Justin Timberlake's "That Girl", "Strawberry Bubblegum", "Suit and Tie", and "Pusher Love Girl"; Usher's "Love In This Club", and Beyonce's "Rocket". So basically, I was really digging my R &B.

* * *

**That Girl (possibly ties in with Untitled, For Now-verse)**

"Hey, Q," Santana says, rapping her fingers against the corner of Quinn's desk. They've got a few minutes before class and she's hoping to get a gander at Quinn's notes from the required reading.

"Lemme see your notebook," she asks, already snatching it away from Quinn's grasp.

"We didn't have an assignment," Quinn says, not really annoyed. "And if we had, why wouldn't you have done it yourself? I thought you and Brittany had a study date."

Santana smirks. "Say that again, slowly, and think about it."

Quinn just rolls her eyes, unaffected. "You guys are relentless."

"We're in love," Santana corrects, and then blushes for her trouble.

Quinn just smiles at her knowingly.

* * *

"Good afternoon, folks," Professor Howard says, striding into their classroom with his always brisk yet deliberate gait. "I hope everyone's up for some intense debating."

Santana sinks lower in her seat as the rest of her class groans in anguish.

She totally forgot they were having mock debates today.

"Don't everyone volunteer at once," Professor Howard laughs, letting his eyes roam over student after student. "Come on, guys. The sooner you get it over with the sooner I can fail. You. All. Just kidding."

"_I'll _go professor."

Santana's head shoots to her left and of course – of fucking course – it has to be Chelsea Collier.

Chelsea who - in the few short weeks that Santana's been aware of her existence – has managed to cement her place in Santana's mind as the most ignorant, most abhorrent, most homophobic bible-thumper she's ever come across.

Chelsea who looks like she should be in Elle magazine, who crosses herself regularly, who's the byproduct of a Deacon and home-schooler's union, is volunteering to debate and Santana would much rather chomp on a bag full of Legos than sit through the impending debacle.

"Very well, Chelsea," Professor Howard says, gesturing for her to step forward. "Take the floor. Now, for your debate partner…"

Santana swears it's not her imagination when nearly everyone in the class recoils.

Professor Howard eyes each class member studiously, conducting his own internal debate and Santana prays that he'll just let her sit this one out in peace –

But fate, already having given her a very good morning in the form of a nearly naked Brittany presenting her with fresh, hot coffee, seems to not give any fucks anymore because her stupid ass pen, she'd just set atop her desk rolls off the edge and clatters to the floor, the tiny sound echoing in the dead silence of the classroom.

"Ah, Miss Santana Lopez," Professor Howard smiles, his eyes shining behind his glasses. "Do come and delight us with that sharp wit this fine afternoon."

Quinn snickers beside her and she takes pains to make sure she glares the daggers of a lifetime at her friend before begrudgingly rising out of her seat, making her way to the front of the classroom.

"Okay ladies and gents," Professor Howard starts, "Let's give the two ladies here our full attention. And, ladies, remember to enunciate. Be concise and clear. Your topic: science, and the belief that it poses a threat to humanity. Ms. Lopez, you're pro-science and Ms. Collier, you'll take the antagonist's stance. Okay ladies, shake hands."

Santana holds her hand out, and Chelsea takes it loosely, shaking it in a loose embrace before breaking the hold.

She thinks she's being discrete but Santana sees her surreptitiously wipe her hand on her pants afterward.

Now, she's a hell of a lot more motivated to win this thing.

* * *

She's kicking ass

She knows she is.

And she's always been very good at attacking with her words anyway, but now that there's an actual class that focuses those attacks, strengthens her arguments, and highlights her intelligence, she's become virtually an oratory assassin.

Chelsea Collier never stood a chance.

"It's a matter of practicality. If one day, scientists are able to cure previously incurable diseases, or to prevent starvation by manufacturing food goods in a manner that won't put a strain on our environment, why would you or anyone want to prevent it?" Santana asks, rhetorically of course. "Denying scientific progress is, simply put, idiotic."

"It's about natural selection," Chelsea retorts. "It's about the natural progression and order of things. Science is wonderful, yes. Knowledge is something we all can benefit from but it is also powerful. And man is not yet equipped to control that power."

"Then who is?"

"God, of course," Chelsea says, starting to get a little frantic. "It is God who makes the decision on who live and dies. It is God who decides what ailment a person is to suffer. Scientist cannot be God."

Professor Howard interjects. "Remember, we're supposed to tread lightly on the eligion-ray," he says, glancing covertly at John, the class' resident and overly sensitive atheist.

"It's cool, " Santana shrugs it off. "I'll follow your logic. Doesn't it also stand to reason that God would appreciate the advances of science. After all, we're only as capable as he made us, according to the traditional beliefs."

"Just because we can do something, doesn't mean we should," Chelsea states the idiom by rote. "I can murder someone, but I think we all would agree that I shouldn't."

"That's such a loaded argument. We're not talking about murder, we're talking about science and if science will make it possible for my wife and I to have a child together – one that's comprised of both of us – I don't see the downside of that."

"I do," Chelsea says, and nothing more, gripping the podium so tightly her knuckles are turning white.

Some members of the class gasp, somewhat surprised by the outburst, but Santana's unsurprised, sensing this coming from the moment she was selected by Professor Howard.

"What did you say?" Santana asks, her voice steady.

"I said, 'I do'," Chelsea repeats. "Homosexuals spawning? You and your _wife _having a baby? This is exactly the type of downfall unchecked, rampant scientific advances will produce and it will indeed bring about the destruction of humanity. Manufacturing babies – bringing lives into the world by synthetic means instead of through the natural act of love…If that ever comes to fruition I will finally understand the meaning of the term 'End of Days'."

Santana takes a deep breath in, and even though the words should hurt, she feels ridiculously calm.

Professor Howard is stood up from his desk, seemingly stunned into inarticulateness but nonetheless determined to put an end to this exercise, but Santana won't let him.

It's time to take someone to school.

"First of all, 'manufacturing babies'," she air quotes, "is something that's been going on for decades so you're a bit behind in your doomsday prediction. And second, if you are ever lucky enough in your life to have one-465th of what I have with Brittany you will only just begin to know what _natural_ love really is."

Santana pauses momentarily, ignoring the murmurs of agreement coming from her peers. She's got her eyes set on Chelsea and she's not blinking, intent on sending this point home.

"That girl, she loves me more than anything in this world and I…I love her more than I can…there aren't even words. And I'll continue to do so, in spite of what simple-minded, non-evolved, unenlightened people think about it."

Santana finally checks back in, the mute button her ears must've inadvertently turned on, clicking off and she's aware once again of where she is, who she's talking to, and who's watching her rant and rave about Brittany.

And, maybe she should be embarrassed.

But it's kind of hard to be when your classmates are all cheering their approval and clapping loudly, while Chelsea, defeated, turns redder than her old Cheerios uniform.

She goes back to her seat after Professor Howard tries to settle everyone down, high-fiving a few people on the way back.

Quinn leans over once she plops back down. "Don't you ever tell anyone I said this, okay? But Brittany's a really lucky girl."

Santana grins, looking down at her desk shyly, thinking how very wrong Quinn is.

Because she's the lucky one.

**-20/20-**

**Suit and Tie (Maya-verse)**

Santana always feels a little odd attending these things.

Like, she's not conceited or anything but she's definitely not the least known person on the planet what with her debut album going platinum, but, in this room, with this crowd, all of that means absolutely nothing.

The people in this room get excited about composite building materials and energy-efficient lighting, not her latest chart topper.

Which is fine, because it affords Brittany the opportunity to be the star – which is how Santana views her everyday so it's nice to see other people joining in on the party.

She likes it.

"Are you okay?" Brittany asks her, sliding an arm around her in a classically elegant yet comfortable way. "Sorry I had to step away but Mr. Franklin wanted to introduce me to Justin Wong, this up and coming developer."

"It's fine, Britt," Santana assures her wife with a smile. "You're supposed to be networking."

Brittany grins, her fingers flexing along Santana's side. "Yeah, but we've been here for two hours now and you're wearing the shit out of that dress."

She is; there's no doubt about that. She's caught more than a few eyes lingering on her when she and Brittany have been introduced to this or that person. But she's also seen those appreciative glances thrown in Brittany's direction and she can't blame them.

See, when they go to these things, there's certain attire that's necessary. Like, they have to dress up.

And yeah, she does it all the time during awards season or for photoshoots or premieres but _Brittany _doesn't.

In fact, Brittany rarely if ever breaks out of her skirt and blouse mode for work, jeans and tees and tanks for play, and sweats for anything in between.

Except for events like this.

And, in Santana's opinion, there's nothing sexier than Brittany in a suit and tie.

Santana smirks a little, tilting her head to look at Brittany while her hands move to adjust a perfectly formed Windsor knot. "You mind keeping this on…when we get back to the hotel?" she asks, her tone innocent but her eyes anything but.

Brittany gulps, her ears burning bright, on display because she has her hair pulled back in a neat bun. "Sure," she says, trying too hard to sound casual.

"Good," Santana says, smiling as the trails her hand down Brittany's tie. "Let's go make the rounds one more time then, okay?"

It's almost comical how quickly Brittany nods, yanking her hand away and clasping it as they shoot off to find Brittany's boss.

**-20/20-**

**Strawberry Bubblegum (Canon; pre-3x04)**

Brittany gets the text during fourth period.

_Hey Britt-Britt. I'm home. Well, I'm at ur house & doing some laundry because the dryer at mines is on the fritz. Text me when u're almost done & I can swing by 2 pick u up. Xoxox_

She grins like a crazy person and maybe she says something out loud too because Tina and Artie give her this strange look but she doesn't have time for them.

In fact, she doesn't have time for the rest of her school day anymore.

* * *

The non-existent midday traffic and a favorable traffic light sequence gets her home in just under fifteen minutes – and it would be a record if she hadn't already set one the previous year when Santana sent her a much less innocent text with accompanying pictures.

Brittany sighs.

That was a good day.

At any rate, she's sort of maybe kinda hoping for a repeat and she knows it wouldn't take much to make it happen because Santana's as much of a sexy-times addict as she is but she'll try to keep it on the PG side because her dad's in the middle of retiring so he turns up at home at weird hours of the day from time to time.

But then she sees Santana, wearing a pair of Brittany's sweats and swaying her hips to whatever's in her earbuds while chewing on – yeah, that's right – strawberry-flavored bubblegum and her reluctance goes out the window.

"_Listen, if you got some friends rolling with you than baby that's cool._

_You can leave them with my homies let them know that I got you._

_If you didn't know, you're the only thing that's on my mind._

_'cause the way I'm staring at you got me wanting to give it to you all night…"_

Santana sings out, moving the wet clothes to the dryer, and Brittany bites her lip a bit before moving to wrap her arms around her girl from behind, Santana jumping and turning before relaxing against Brittany when recognition sets in.

"You are the absolute cutest," Brittany murmurs after taking one earbud out of Santana's little ear.

"Hey Britt-Britt," Santana says lazily, tilting her head back and offering her lips to Brittany, a silent request that Brittany immediately fulfills. "You're home early?" she mumbles against her lips.

"Had to," Brittany grins, pulling away with a pop – and the gum - and allowing Santana to turn in her arms. "My super-hot girlfriend was at home all alone and that's a no-no. Look at you, all undone-up and still looking like the sexiest thing ever."

Santana grins, though her cheeks tinge in the slightest hint of a blush, the way only Brittany's only able to notice. "Does um…" Santana starts, biting her lip, "does your uniform need cleaning?"

Brittany wrinkles her nose, still chomping away and not anticipating or really understanding the question until she realizes she's wearing her uniform.

_Oh._

"Cause," Santana continues, running her hands up Brittany's arms and stopping where skin gives way to fabric, tracing the outline with her fingertips, "I can clean it for you. If you want."

Brittany swallows, already lost with the look of absolute want Santana is giving her.

"'kay," she manages to say, not even caring about losing her cool because Santana, with her mighty mouse strength, has just trailed her hands down to her hips and lifted her atop the dryer.

"Gotta make it a little bit more dirty though, first Britt," Santana explains at Brittany's shocked expression, sliding her hands up Brittany's thighs and wrapping her fingers firmly around her panties before tugging them down, slowly.

Santana's smirk and little wink is the last thing she processes for a while that afternoon.

That and the fact that she swallowed that bubblegum.

**-20/20-**

**Pusher Love Girl (AU Brittana)**

It started as a joke, she thinks.

They were just kicking the breeze after their mid-shift at the coffeehouse one day when she finally told her and Jake took it like a champ.

Though she suspects he's kind of known all along – everyone crushes on Beyoncé and Jolie, gay or straight, but when 'Caramel Macchiato girl' is the object of your affection, even the least perceptive start to take notice.

Anyway, she thinks he wasn't expecting her to take him up on his offer, laughingly suggesting they visit the Unicorn Palace after work some time after she told him that she likes guys and girls just the same but when she just bites her lip and mumbles out a 'we should' he gets this look on his face that screams 'Holy Shit'.

"Uh, Britt," Jake starts, glancing around to make sure none of the patrons are paying attention, "I wasn't really serious. I mean, we can if you really want to but that place is kinda sketchy at its best."

"No, I've actually wanted to go for a long time," Brittany explains, willing her cheeks to cool down, "I've just never had anybody to go with because most of my friends aren't exactly cool with…let's just say that you're a true friend, Jake."

The boy swallows, cracking a grin. "Then I'm honored, Brittany. I'm honored to lead you into the life of decadence and depravity."

"Shut up," she murmurs, hitting him on the arm.

* * *

The first time they go almost ends up being the last.

Brittany's actually the first to arrive – 'cause she had the day-off and meeting him at his place or the job would've added unnecessary travel time – and she knows she looks awkward just standing outside of the darkened club, avoiding eye contact when guy after guy slip inside.

(And she almost swallows her tongue when what has to be a performer hops out of a taxi, brushing her fingers along Brittany's arm and saying, 'Can't wait to see you inside?').

She's about ten seconds from bolting when Jake finally shuffles up, flipping his shirt collar back down as he approaches.

"You ready?" he asks, not waiting for her response before ushering them both inside, holding the door open for her.

It's dark, she notices that straight away, but it smells good, a fact that surprises her given the club's outside appearance.

Jake leads her down this darkened hallway, keeping close after they've been carded and stuff. "_So,_ I haven't been here in a long time but they're pretty discreet here so we won't have to worry about turning up on YouTube somewhere."

"Oh God," Brittany squeaks, not having thought of that.

"Chill, B. It's all good," Jake says. They reach this red velvet curtain, a guard standing post in front of it.

"Enjoy your evening," the man says, undoing the ties and letting them inside the main room.

"Boobs," Brittany says aloud, immediately.

And she's right.

There are boobs everywhere.

Jake laughs, finding them a table near the stage before Brittany can freak out. "I thought you liked boobs."

"Yeah, but not in my face," Brittany says, scrunching up her face.

"I think it's just because you don't know who they belong to," Jake says sagely.

"You two want anything ta drink ta-night?"

Brittany's eyes cross as they look at the cleavage asking the question. "Um…"

"We'll take a beer, please?" Jake answers for both of them.

"Sure thang," the waitress says, walking away.

Brittany grips the tabletop and Jake notices. "You're freaking out on me, Britt."

"I'm not, I just…maybe this place wasn't such a good idea," she says, sighing a bit. "I mean, it's so tacky and," she lowers her voice to a whisper, "Everybody's naked."

"Well, I mean, it is a strip club, Britt. That's kind of the point."

"But I thought there'd be more of a show. This is like going to a naked lady grocery store."

"What grocery stores do you go to?" Jake asks, raising a brow. "Besides, there will be a show. Trust me."

And there was a show.

A _great_ show.

* * *

Her name is Satan's Valentine.

But Brittany's pretty sure she's anything but.

Been sure of it ever since that first night when the last act for the evening was announced and the woman came out, clad in sexy red and black bustier set with thigh-high leather boots completing the look.

She's hot, that's for sure, but she's not devilish.

Not in the least.

_Brittany's staring._

_She's staring and not breathing._

_She may die here._

_Satan's Valentine doesn't notice her at first, smirking as she takes in the shouts of appreciation and adoration from the audience, but when she her gaze finally does sweep around to catch Brittany's face, her eyes jump just a little._

_Slowly, as the music starts up – Beyoncé's _"Rocket"_ filtering in through the club's speaker system – Satan's Valentine drags the lone chair sitting on the stage with her up the catwalk, positioning it dead center and right where Brittany and Jake happen to be sitting._

_She looks down at her. "This your first time, sweetie?" she asks Brittany, her voice soft and sultry, and Brittany nods, after remembering that questions mostly need answers._

"_That your boyfriend?" Satan's Valentine asks, gesturing to Jake._

"_No way," Brittany squeals, almost affronted but Satan's Valentine only laughs._

"_Okay, okay, sweetie," she says, her smoky voice giving Brittany goosebumps. "This one's on me."_

"_What one's on you?" Brittany starts to ask but Jake's already practically dragging her out of her chair and pushing her onstage before she gets an answer._

_Before Brittany can figure out what is going on she's in Satan's Valentine's chair, face burning brighter than the stars while the woman proceeds to make her melt like her favorite Barbie did that time her older cousin stuck it in the microwave._

_Twice she tries to touch her._

_Twice Satan's Valentine just brushes her hands away with a playful reproachful smile._

_Never does Brittany take her eyes off her._

* * *

She's tried to shake it off.

It's not like she knows anything about the woman – other than she obviously likes her R&B music and the color red – so thinking about her so much should be weird.

It's almost like she's addicted.

Like, she'll try to think of something else, try focusing on making coffee orders or sketching out her dream car but eventually she skimps on the cream trying to recreate the color of Satan's Valentine's eyes or the sleek curves of the new sedan evolve until their a pair of women's hips.

She can't get the woman out of her head.

And, honestly, she doesn't want to.

* * *

"Britt, this is weird."

Brittany ignores Jake, hunching her shoulders against the cool night air.

It's been two weeks and they've just spent the night at the club again. Satan's Valentine performed and did another lap dance although not for Brittany this time.

Brittany had watched as the woman got lost in the performance, more wrapped up in the music than she was with the guy she was supposed to be teasing and it's then that Brittany figured it out.

"She probably doesn't even remember you. I mean, it's been two weeks. She's probably given out dozens of lapdances."

"Shut up, Jake," Brittany grumps, annoyed that he's being so…annoying.

Just then, the side doors to the club open and out pour a few of the performers, laughing and bumping into one another playfully.

They all exchange quick goodbyes and Brittany, feeling like such a creeper, watches as Satan's Valentine hangs back, pulling her keys out of her purse, aiming them at her car to get it to start while an unlit cigarette hangs from her lips.

"Well," Jake whispers, nudging her forward, "What are you waiting for? Say something."

He nudges her again and this time the shuffling of her feet catches Satan's Valentine's attention, her quest for her cigarette lighter forgotten as she leans against the brick exterior.

At first, the look on her face is wary, angry even, but then she seemingly recognizes Brittany and all that adorns her features is curious concern.

"Hey," Satan's Valentine grins, "You're the virgin."

"What?" Brittany gasps, "No I'm not."

"I meant to strip clubs," the woman corrects, amusement coloring her tone as she removes the cigarette.

"Oh," Brittany says, growing embarrassed.

"Yeah," the woman says, wearing that same delicious smirk. It's even more beautiful without all that extra makeup on. "So, what's up? You and your not-boyfriend stalking me now?" she asks playfully.

Jake giggles maniacally behind her, sounding deranged and Brittany squeezes her eyes in embarrassment but Satan's Valentine just chuckles, brushing it off.

"Well," the stripper says, pushing herself off the wall, "It was nice not talking to you, Blondie. You should try saying something next time."

Brittany panics when the woman starts to walk away but all it takes is a well-timed shove from Jake to get her prone figure to spring into action.

"Thank you," she blurts to the woman's back, frowning to herself at her own ineptitude.

Satan's Valentine stops walking; and when she turns around to look at Brittany, her arms are crossed over her chest. "Thank you?" she questions, giving Brittany an odd look.

"For the dance," Brittany stammers out. "I know that you didn't have to or anything but…it was…nice. So…thank you."

The odd look on Satan's Valentine's face doesn't go away but she does give Brittany a queer little smile. "It was nice?"

Brittany smiles ruefully. "Maybe a little bit more than nice."

Satan's Valentine does laugh at that. "Alright. Well, I accept your thanks, Blondie. And you're welcome. Since we're being polite and all," she adds playfully, starting to walk away again.

"Brittany," she blurts out again, that uncomfortable embarrassed feeling returning. "My name is Brittany."

"Okay, Brittany," Satan's Valentine nods.

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Brittany asks when it's not immediately given but Satan's Valentine just winks.

"You already know my name, Sweetie."

* * *

She doesn't bring Jake the next time she goes.

Actually, she doesn't even watch the show.

Instead, she spends the thirty minutes before the club usually shuts down, talking to herself in her mind and flipping open and closed a cigarette lighter.

Like before, the performers spill out of the side exit and Brittany's surprised they're not more customers who've caught on to this being the place where they leave, but she's grateful for it.

Grateful that she's the only one who seems to care enough.

Satan's Valentine catches her eye straight away and she shares a look with a couple of her dancing friends who look back at her knowingly, like they're holding a secret.

Today Satan's Valentine is wearing a short red skirt, but the sweatshirt she's wearing over it nearly covers it up entirely.

"We'll see you later, S," one of the dancers says, mouthing for Satan's Valentine to 'call me'.

"Brittany," Satan's Valentine says, rifling through her purse for a cigarette. "You're back. I didn't see you in the club."

Brittany hands her a cigarette and waits for Satan's Valentine to take it before flipping open the lighter.

Satan's Valentine smiles at the proffered flame, leaning forward until the end of the cigarette ignites. "I didn't go in," Brittany explains, closing the lighter. "I didn't come here tonight to see you perform."

"Then what did you come here for?"

Satan's Valentine's eyes get really dark, her smirk gone as she pins Brittany to a spot with her stare. She takes a long drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly so that it billows around her head.

The image is slightly erotic.

Brittany lets a breath out shakily. "I came to see you."

The other woman sighs, shaking her head slowly. "Brittany…"

"Don't say no," Brittany asks her, "Please don't? I get that you're a stripper and part of you was just doing your job when I first turned up but… I see the way you've been with everyone else since and it's not the same. _You're _not the same. And I don't care that you're a stripper. I don't care that you take your clothes off for money. I just…I just care about you."

Finished with her speech, Brittany nearly slumps with relief until she realizes that Satan's Valentine hasn't said anything in return and that's kind of the whole point so…

There's a moment or two, where they just look at one another, Satan's Valentine's cigarette burning away and leaving ash stains on the concrete beneath them.

Then the stripper comes back to life, flicking the nearly halfway gone cigarette away and crushing it under her heeled boot. "Santana," she says, nothing more.

Brittany's face twitches, a question nearly forming but the woman beats her to the punch.

"That's my name," Satan's Valentine says, pulling out her car keys and starting away. "Santana."

It's a start.


End file.
